


Drowse

by blackbentley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Flirting (Good Omens), Fluff, M/M, s o f t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22815679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbentley/pseuds/blackbentley
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have a quiet night in, drinks are drunk, naps are had, Crowley is terrible at flirting, and unexpected smol kisses happen. Soft fluff!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	Drowse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aziraphaliac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziraphaliac/gifts).

> Please note that, although it may have worked for Crowley, I do not recommend light choking as a first move if you're trying to flirt with someone. 
> 
> Title is a song from Queen's album A Day at the Races. I thought it worked with the general sleepiness.

It's never happened before. On dozens of nights exactly like this one, it's never happened before.

They're sitting on the battered leather sofa with the television on in the background, but they're not really watching it; something comforting and familiar that they've both seen countless times, so they can mostly pay attention to each other secure in the knowledge they're not missing anything. Crowley on the left, Aziraphale on the right. Sunglasses and bow tie long discarded. Crowley slouched, splayed across a space that would easily seat two people, taking up too much room as usual. Aziraphale turned to the side with his feet up on the cushions, tartan-socked ankles neatly crossed and his back leaning into Crowley's arm. Comfortable. Safe. They've been here before.

The film will finish, glasses will be emptied, goodbyes will be said and they'll go their separate ways for the night.

Safe.

The evening rolls on, and Aziraphale reaches the drowsy stage of tipsy. He doesn't sleep much (neither of them have to, after all, and he doesn't enjoy it the way Crowley does – it makes him feel guilty, as if he should be doing Something Else just in case Heaven decide to come calling mid-nap), but he does have a tendency to doze when he's been drinking. He spends a while drifting in and out, and eventually settles into sleep with his head tipped back on Crowley's shoulder. Crowley watches him through wine-fuzzed eyes, hears the soft snores and watches his chest rise and fall; like sleeping, neither of them need to breathe, but it's an important part of this shared projection of humanity and a hard habit to break after six thousand years.

Slowly, gently, desperate not to disturb his sleeping angel (_the_ sleeping angel, he corrects himself), Crowley slides his right arm out from under Aziraphale's back and drapes it gently across him. Forearm resting on his ribs, long fingers on his breastbone.

_Need to put it somewhere, after all, can't very well sit here with it suspended in mid-air. _

Nothing to see here.

He's already practiced what he'll say if Aziraphale wakes up and asks why he appears to be _cuddling_ him. He'll curl his lip, roll his eyes. _Arm fell asleep, didn't it? Useless corporation. Major design flaw. Weight of your head, I 'spect. What did you want me to do, miracle the blasted thing away? Anyway, _you're_ the one who was snuggling into _me_ in your sleep. Something you want to tell me, angel?_

Aziraphale shifts and Crowley tenses, but he's just turning on his side slightly, wriggling down the sofa a little so his head rests on Crowley's chest and Crowley's hand naturally settles at his waist. A soft sigh, and he's still asleep. Crowley exhales, relaxes, and as he does so he notices that the angel's pale blue shirt has come slightly untucked. Ridden up just a little, exposing a couple of square inches of pale, perfect skin. He wouldn't even need to move his hand, a little stretch and he could have bare flesh under his fingertips. Could lean over and kiss it. Crowley clenches a fist, once, twice, and the urge to reach out subsides. Slightly.

_Behave. You don't do this._

The film finishes, and restarts, and Crowley can't bring himself to wake him. Can't bear to cut off the closeness, can't bear the thought of the angel's warm weight lifting off him, leaving him cold and exposed.

Every few minutes his attention wanders, and he catches himself gazing wistfully at this little clandestine piece of Aziraphale that's been revealed. He can't help himself. Can't help wondering what it would feel like _(soft)_. What it would taste like _(sweet)_.

_Stop. It. H__e isn't _for_ you. _

And that stings a bit.

Despite the distraction, Crowley must nod off at some point. He wakes up with his mouth dry, the film halfway through (again), and neither Aziraphale nor his own right arm where he left them. Aziraphale lies on his back, blonde curls pillowed on Crowley's thigh, and Crowley's hand sits high on the angel's chest – palm on the sternum, fingers and thumb winging across the collarbones.

He watches his hand as if it belongs to someone else. Stares absently as the thumb strokes Aziraphale's skin. Soft as a whisper. _Leave no trace. You were never here._ He makes it stop, and it's harder than it should have been. The tiniest of frowns knits Aziraphale's brows and flickers at the corners of his mouth. Crowley's thumb starts up again, and the angel relaxes. Almost smiles.

A thing in Crowley's chest is stuttering, sparking against his ribs like a damp flint. Something dark and wretched and long buried is stirring and stretching, and suddenly he has never been so terrified. 

_What in Satan's name are you _doing_? This doesn't happen. Enough, now. This has to be enough; it's already more than you deserve._

Crowley shifts his hand slightly, and brushes his thumb gently up and down the side of Aziraphale's neck. The angel presses into the new contact and huffs softly in his sleep.

At least, that's what it seems.

Crowley would have missed it if he wasn't looking right at Aziraphale when it happened. Television a bit brighter than normal, and he just catches a glimmer of white between the angel's eyelashes. _Bastard_, thinks Crowley. _Bloody bastard, how long has he been awake?_

As hard as Crowley might try he can come up with no rational explanation for what happens next. Slowly, smoothly, he slides his hand up, up, until it's wrapped loosely round Aziraphale's throat, the curve of Crowley's fingers and thumb slotting perfectly under his jaw. Crowley _squeezes_, just exerts the barest of pressure on the angel's windpipe; Aziraphale arches his spine ever so slightly, and bites out a noise that could almost be called a moan. Crowley drops his hand back to Aziraphale's chest, then slides it back up again. Squeezes. Same reaction, but this time the angel's eyes are wide open and looking right at him.

Crowley cocks one eyebrow at Aziraphale. Questioning. _Where does this go? Where does it leave us? What _is_ this?_ Aziraphale swallows, and Crowley feels it against his palm. He strokes his thumb against the soft skin behind Aziraphale's ear, and the angel's eyes drop to Crowley's mouth then back up again. Aziraphale raises both eyebrows for a second; that pleading, puppy dog expression which he knows, the bastard _knows_, that Crowley has never been able to resist. 

_Don't make this my decision._

They're both half gone with drink and sleep. It'll be easy to deny, easy to never mention again. Nothing changes.

Crowley shifts his grip of the angel's neck so that he's cupping the back of his head in his hand, and draws him up gently into a sitting position. No push, no pressure, nothing forced here. Aziraphale moves towards him willingly. They hold each other's gaze for a long, long moment.

_In for a penny_, he thinks, half-closing his eyes and pressing his closed lips gently against Aziraphale's. It's a soft, dry, chaste kiss, with no promise or expectation. He draws away, just far enough to meet the angel's blue eyes with his own yellow ones, cocks an eyebrow. Questioning. Aziraphale's gaze flicks downward; it's a nanosecond, barely perceptible, but it's enough. Enough for Crowley to dip his head again, lips slightly parted this time, and their mouths come together like two halves of something long broken.

Edges smooth out, a pattern reveals itself as jagged parts come together as a whole. Lustre restored.

_In for a pound_. Crowley allows the very tip of his tongue to slip into the angel's mouth. Still questioning. It feels like hours pass as he waits for … something. Permission, denial, _anything_. Then, suddenly, as he's about to pull back and start apologising like his miserable life depends on it, Aziraphale very firmly and very definitely and very not-accidentally nips Crowley's bottom lip between his teeth.

And the stuttering, sparking thing in Crowley's chest catches light and _roars_.


End file.
